


Blue Rain

by paraspark



Series: Weathering The Storm [2]
Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Brief Language, Dad Donald is best Donald, Gen, I don't even know what to call it, It helps, Violence, and cocoa, buckle up kiddos, but family - Freeform, crude suggestive moment, no blood/gore but there's descriptive/implicit violence, oh god the angst, some character study, this one's a doozy, world building, you'll understand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-08-20 07:49:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16551860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paraspark/pseuds/paraspark
Summary: When Dewey gets caught in a downpour on his way home from school, he seeks out shelter from the worst of it. The worst part of a storm, though, happens within its darkest corners, hidden from plain sight.





	Blue Rain

**Author's Note:**

> This took way...way longer than I ever intended it to take. And it turned way longer than I wanted it to. Part of this is dedicated to an AU I’m creating, and part is just me venting on some past shit through ducks. And I have to stop editing it, otherwise it would never get posted. Hope you enjoy and thanks for reading!

Deep along the winding backstreets of Duckburg, a young duckling padded along with his arms swinging by his sides. The grey monotone clouds far above Dewey’s head sped along in the rushing wind, their color growing darker and fuller with the promise of rain.

Dewey smiled and all but skipped down the sidewalk, despite the slow drizzle that began to fizz into existence. A concrete wall separated him from an apartment complex, its stone textured design reminding him of the walls back at school. But school was over for the day, a far and distant memory that made the smile slip from his beak. He sighed in annoyance, his breath billowing up like smoke into the air.

The thought of school made him want to cringe, with the weight of what sat in his backpack more like a crumpled up ball of lead rather than the simple little piece of paper that it was. In angry bursts of scribbles and underlines, the contents of the note made him _actually_ cringe.

Rain started to pitter over the sidewalk as he grumbled and readjusted his bag. Passing a leaf filled gutter, it did cross his mind that the trouble he was going to be in when he got home could go away if he ‘accidentally’ unzipped his bag and let the little pink slip float away from sight.

No note meant no upset uncle.

A happy uncle equaled a happy Dewey.

That was a pretty good win-win in Dewey’s book.

But he remained walking, sighing low in defeat. It wasn’t the ‘right thing to do’ and honestly, he wasn’t good with words like Louie to explain away why it’d gone missing, since his uncle would find out about it eventually.

He always did.

Dewey’s good spirits on finally getting to go home after a long day of livid adults and a detention that could have easily been a suspension were dashed out of his mind. If some curious person were to ask him why he’d been given detention and forced to miss his bus with his brothers, he’d be more than happy to explain that it definitely had not been his fault.

Well...it wasn’t entirely his fault.

Because how―pray tell―was _he_ supposed to know that cultivating a spider hatchery in the classroom closet was a bad idea? It might have gotten a little out of hand, sure, but they were learning about bugs and stuff, and his teacher did ask him multiple times to apply himself better in regards to his classwork.

He was―in theory―doing what was asked. It wasn’t _his_ fault that hundreds of baby spiders decided to leave their nests all at once.  

He shuddered at the memory, still hearing the screams of his classmates and teacher.

Now at this point in time, mosing on down the sidewalk and having forgotten an umbrella in his haste to not make he and his brothers’ late to school that morning, the young eleven year old wanted nothing more than to be home, despite the hellfire of rage that would be his uncle. But before he’d have to give up the note, it would be nice to relax and be snug and dry within his family’s cozy little houseboat.

He snorted in remembrance to a jacket having been forced upon him by his uncle in their haste to leave that morning. It only made his guilt over the whole day grow worse to not just have to deliver one piece of bad news...but now two.

The note for one and that yeah, ok, he _may_ have sorta...kinda...left his blue raincoat in a heap beside the swings at recess.

But again, it was totally―mostly―not his fault. On the swings at recess, how else would he have felt the rocketing breeze of the heavy winds that had plagued the day. A layer of plastic covering his body sure as heck wouldn’t do―so off it had flown―and what a _blast_ that had been, like being sucked into the midst of a tornado.

He wasn’t sorry for that, only for remembering about it now that it was still by the swings. Unable to go back, he needed to just suck it up and try to outrun mother nature in his haste to get home.

One could dream, couldn’t they?  

The sky grew lighter for half a second before a torrential downpour all but blasted against the sidewalk and parked cars along the street. It was as loud as thunder only more intense as he was soaked within a matter of seconds and blinded by rain all at once. 

Dewey tried to cover his eyes as he stopped short and leaned back against the slick stone wall. Shielding his face as best as he could he peered around, blinking through the foggy haze that now covered his sight.

Car lights peered through the rain and crept down the street, their yellow glow faded against the onslaught of rain, but Dewey beamed as he caught sight of a mud strewn parking lot across the street. Having nothing better to go off of, Dewey leapt towards the car parked in front of him and pressed his hand against its glistening hood. Water hitting metal left his ears as he looked both ways before making a mad dash for the other side of the street.

He skidded along the road’s rough surface while racing for the other side, his bare feet hitting mud moments later. It squelched between his toes as he pumped his arms, making to pick up speed and run across the parking lot.

The only problem, one that had Dewey come to a grinding and near panic filled stop, was that there was no parking lot.

Dewey’s legs banged against the sides of a broken metal railing and pain blossomed upwards as he heaved and grasped at the slick metal.

A steep embankment was mere inches away from him. Water fell over the edge like small brown waterfalls, collecting and pooling in crevices and running over patches of weather torn grass and dirt.  

The thought of just having nearly died crossing his mind, he placed a hand over his chest and tried to will his fluttering heart to slow back to its normal rhythm. Not wanting to think anymore about how close a call that had been, he instead peered down the steep hill. Re-placing his hands over the remains of the metal railing, he stood on a thin strip of mud churned grass, his feet digging deeper into the muck as he tried to see to the bottom of the hill. There was a fuzzy view of a two laned street and that of the start of a bridge, its concrete and metal structure dark and looming off to the side.

With the prospects of being dry overriding any rational thought, Dewey shimmied his way down the hill. He held his arms out by his sides and did his best to ignore the way his soaked clothes pulled awkwardly against his feathers and to the ache in his sore legs.

Rain continued to hit the ground fast and hard, it beginning to slant at an odd angle when Dewey stumbled to the edge of the road. The water drove pellets against his bare head and skin, it stinging more and more with each passing second. The bridge more viewable and looking more and more appealing, he took a nanosecond to look both ways before he dashed across the street and to the edge of where the bridge started. His heart pounded hard within his chest as he slipped and nearly rammed into one of the dark gray support beams. He missed his head by mere inches as he ducked beneath it and tried not to think about how close he’d come to falling off _another_ embankment and _again_ to his death.

Darkness covered every square inch of his vision with the rain coming down in droves around him. The small pittering of water as it dripped off his body was the only other immediate sound he could hear. He stood there for a moment, catching his breath and standing on freezing concrete; his feathers fluffed out as he shivered.

Blowing warm air over his hands and trying to ignore the clogging, musty scent of mildew and old dirt, Dewey took the time to dump his soaked backpack off to the side and dry himself off as best as he could.

Other than his clothes, it was easy enough to reach an acceptable level of dryness, being a duck and all. Having given himself a few once over shakes and rapid scrubs to his head feathers, Dewey sighed in relief and inched his way forward until he felt the edge of the platform. The top of his bag in his hand, he dragged it over and sat with a hard thump, letting his feet dangle and swing over the ledge.

Still unable to see much of anything, he reached inside his pocket and had a near heart attack as his hand ghosted over his phone.

“Oh. My. _God. Please, please, please, PLEASE―_ ”

Dewey took out his phone and in shaky fingers he clicked on the power button, letting an enormous and exaggerated sigh leave his beak as light blinded his face.   

The frigid stab of air in his lungs felt wonderful while laughing in relief to the phone gods for sparing him on an already terrible day. Water was streaked across his phone’s screen, but he wiped it away and hugged the device to his cheek, grinning as he said, “Don’t you ever scare me like that again! Do you know how much more _trouble_ I’d be in if Uncle Donald would have to get another replacer? He’d have been so mad...He might’ve actually busted a vein this time.”

His phone remained silent as he stared at its screen. Although he blinked when he noticed a small message icon over his texts. Thumb already on it, he snorted and swung his legs sharply to the text sent by his youngest brother. A rather sad and crude drawing of himself walking home was taped to the inside of their living room window. Rain droplets obscured the background from any outside view and below the picture text was a simple two words that read, ‘ _Poor you.’_

Dewey stuck out his tongue and took a quick selfie before sending it to Louie, his thumbs working in rapid movement over the keyboard.

_'I’m dry as a duck, thank you very much.’_

He stared at his phone for a few seconds before using the flashlight feature to look around. His stomach did a near cartwheel at how high up he was, with a rather large drop separating him from a dirt platform and even further below that, as nothing but a dark outline, was a dirt path that spanned underneath the bridge and out of sight on both sides.

Another noise, one that roared and crashed against itself connected with his ears and angling his phone better, Dewey could just make out the bare edges of what he knew to be a deep canal. It clicked in his head why there was a bridge there to begin with, and he blinked in awe at the rumbling rush of foaming water that spilled over itself.

Vibration within his hand led him back to staring at his phone, his tongue sticking out in anticipation for whatever quip Louie had in store for him. But what he was not expecting, that stilled him in a gust of winter cold, was the single sentence staring back at him.

_'I hate to alarm you but you might wanna look down.’_

“Um…” was all that left his beak as a million horrific thoughts raced through his head all at once, each growing worse by the second.

It took all of Dewey’s willpower to shine his phone down next to him, his face set in grim lines as he tried to be manly and not act like he was about to shriek like a girl to some flash of movement by tentacle or claws or―

Dewey’s brow furrowed, there being nothing scary next to him. Well, corrected, something did poke out from beneath his backpack but it didn’t move. With his phone in his one hand and shining down over the area, he lifted his bag and stared down at something off white and rather shriveled up under the bright light of his phone. With his head cocked he said, “Huh...why’s there a ballo― _OH GOD EW WHY?!_ ”

His backpack and phone near flying to their own deaths, Dewey scrambled away from the horror scene that he had been sitting next to for a blissful and innocent few minutes.  

A _condom_ , one of those _thing-things_ he and his brothers’ were _definitely_ not supposed to know anything about―but that everyone in class already knew about anyway, had been chilling under his backpack like it belonged there.

Or more like it _owned_ that spot.

Dewey uncovered his hands from his face and recovered his phone from beside him, flashing its light back towards it.

Yep, still there and glued so close to the faded grey concretes ledge that it was a wonder it hadn’t dropped out of sight yet. Dewey made a disgusted face and snapped a picture of it with his backpack just in frame, typing in a jitter filled rush beneath it.

_‘MY BACKPACK’S BEEN VIOLATED. MY EYES HAVE BEEN VIOLATED.’_

He left it at that, waiting and watching it from out of the corner of his eyes as though it would suddenly spring to life. Even if he knew it wouldn’t, the fact that it was there and not just a conjured up image in his mind’s eye put him a bit on edge.

But a new and abrupt realization made him blink a few times in thought, his unease with the situation being replaced with curiosity. He was probably the first kid in his class to ever see such a thing and have undeniable proof of its existence. It sparked an odd feeling to erupt in his chest and a wide grin stretched over his face to match his sudden glee.

Oh man...the _story_ this would make. His eyes shown as he realized that he didn’t just have _the story_ of the _entire fifth grade_ not even three feet away from him, but the proof of its validity was being held within his hands.

Any more thought on this new revelation ceased as Dewey’s phone vibrated and he looked down. He burst into laughter, seeing a picture of bleach sitting on their bathroom counter followed by a small cup for washing out eyes.

He gripped his stomach as tears leaked down his face. Taking deep breaths to try and calm down, he broke out into more snorting laughter as beneath the picture a message appeared with a first aid kit, a backpack, a heart, and a hugging emoji.

Unable to find the words he wanted to type, Dewey called his youngest brother, who picked up after the second ring and who, like him, was all but hysterically laughing on the other end.

“Louie, I can’t breath,” he sputtered, trying to take deep breaths as he snickered against his hand.

“How do you think I feel?!” Louie replied, his words being intermittently interrupted by giggle fits.

In the background a loud and disgruntled voice said, “You are NOT bringing your backpack inside, I won’t allow it!”

He was calm enough to roll his eyes and fake seriousness as he said, “Will you tell our brother it’s offensive to treat a trauma victim like that.”

There was mumbling that filled the line before a lot of noise filtered through and finally Huey’s voice snapped in his ear, “The only ‘victim’ here is going to be our floor if you bring that disease riddled cesspool of a backpack inside!”

Glancing back over at the condom, he snickered and mused, “It does look really... _really_ well used.”

As expected, he heard his older brother gag sharply into the line before he yelled, “Where even are you?!”

“It’s raining so you know, I’m chillin’ under a bridge...or trying to.”

More background noise filtered through the line and Dewey again rolled his eyes, hearing his brothers’ squabble for a few moments longer before Louie’s indifferent voice came through. “Yeah that sucks, it’s still really comin’ down over here. You better get home before Uncle Donald shows up—you’ve got an hour and a half before he leaves work. Lucky you, he said he was gonna be late tonight.”

Dewey blew a raspberry into the receiver and replied, “Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m just seein’ if the rain will…”

His train of thought, all the ease and comfort of sitting there and enjoying the moment of a lifetime with his brothers’ ceased in a single moment. He drifted off mid sentence, unsure if what caught his attention was actually real or if shadows were playing tricks on his eyes.

Movement far below on the dirt path that spanned beneath the bridge glimpsed in and out of focus and in one stroke of genuine and sudden terror, his beak went slack, his eyes widening.

“Uh...earth to Dewey, you still there? Did we lose you?”

“The rain let up,” he mumbled, unsure if his voice had actually worked as his hand tightened over his phone. “I gotta go, be home soon.”

He hung up on his brother, who had begun to question him, but the words were lost as he silenced the device and put it back into his pocket with a swiftness that defied his trembling hands. The duckling’s heart sped as he gently eased his legs back up and over the ledge and scooted away from it before laying on his stomach. Inching forward, he placed his hands over the concrete and peered down to the dirt path.

Far below him and standing in a straight line just beneath the sheltering confines of the bridge were a few tall, hooded figures. Their clothes were dark, features indecipherable from anything more than lean looking blobs.

The feathers over Dewey’s arms and neck spiked and he subconsciously flattened himself further against the floor. In his ears, a strange whooshing that made him lightheaded and dizzy all at once fell in sync to his fast beating heart.

He was _alone_ when he had arrived, that much he knew. Even with the bad lighting and his eyes now having adjusted to the dim glow, Dewey would have noticed them. They were hard to not notice, now that he was getting a better look at their tall, slim features and the odd way they were standing. Like a barricade, they were of similar height with hoods concealing any features and they stood near shoulder to shoulder. He watched for any sign of movement, still not quite sure if they were _real_ real or if he was just being extra imaginative.

But no, they were still there and standing in silence. Or what appeared to Dewey as such since no voices reached his ears and they didn’t appear to be looking at each other.

Or it was the storm that made both parties invisible to the other. Either way, chills prickled like icy needles up his spine as he placed a hand to his beak in thought and narrowed his eyes, trying to make sense of what it was they were even doing.

They didn’t move.

They didn’t appear to speak.

They faced the rain, their backs to the darkness and dry sanctity the bridge offered.

It was odd, so very odd, with the way they remained unmoving, almost as if they were waiti—

A distant scream, one that tore through the sounds of the pelting rain caused a violent shudder to reverberate up Dewey’s back and vibrate within his head. It grounded him, made his blood freeze within his veins as more figures walked at an easy, unhurried pace out from the rain and crossed to the other side of the bridge. They stood in a similar way as the others with their backs turned to their companions.

“What the hell…” Dewey whispered, but he immediately covered his beak with his hands, staring in horror at them and waiting for an inevitable reaction. But they didn’t so much as shift in his direction.

Another scream, sounding muffled at first but growing sharper as it drew closer broke through the curtain of rain and echoed in piercing contrast from beneath the bridge.

Similar in appearance to the others, a tall, dark figure dragged a much smaller, lighter colored blob along the dusty path with more figures following after and forming a loose semi-circle beneath the bridge. They seemed unconcerned with the smaller person, choosing to lean along the cement wall and light tiny, ember glowing sticks between darkened fingers.

The acrid scent of burning tobacco hit him full force and it took every ounce of his being to not gag. Instead he covered his beak with his hands and watched some of the figures sit down and face each other. They chattered words that bounced around and were indecipherable from Dewey’s position, even though the smaller figure was saying something to them in a short, gasping way, their words sounding frantic and jumbled together.

“What the hell…?” he whispered again, his brows furrowing further as he watched the shorter figure be dropped within the middle of the clearing.

One voice, deep and set in almost a growl, cut through the air, silencing all other mingled voices. But like his inability to see much, Dewey couldn’t catch what they were saying save for a random word here and there. The deep voice sounded irritated—possibly angry as the duckling strained his ears to hear over the sounds of the rain. Mean Growl, as he was thinking of the owner’s voice as, shouted and he shrunk back, thinking for a split second he might have been seen. But as he glimpsed over the ledge, Mean Growl was in the shorter figure’s face.

It happened so fast, Dewey wouldn’t have even _thought_ that it had happened, save for the scream of pain that cut through the group’s silence. For a second time, Mean Growl raised a something, an item long and dark, and effectively cracked it over the smaller figure’s body.

The item was flung to the side and metal hitting concrete rang shrilly and echoed in loud contrast to the sounds of water.

Dewey could do nothing but stare as the small figure screeched and writhed far beneath him, their body being pummeled as Mean Growl kicked and clawed and lashed out with brutal force.

It was a beating; the word floated up from Dewey’s mind. In an odd haze, it reminded him of the bullies at recess who preyed upon the meek and beat the snot out of those dumb enough to not bow their heads and kiss their feet.

Out of the stillness that had gripped his thoughts, Dewey flinched and brought his hands over his eyes as tears began to blur his vision.

It was a beating, like those on playgrounds.

This wasn’t a playground.

Maybe one for adults but…

Not for children.

Dewey flinched again and peeked out of his fingers as a few more people, who the young duckling had all but forgotten about, joined in and a flail of limbs and darkness were all he could make out.

It lasted for what seemed like hours, but couldn’t have been more than a handful of seconds when Mean Growl said something rough sounding and all bodies parted back in a sea of shadows.

The tall figure stooped down and yanked the smaller up and off the ground before all but dragging them to the edge of the canal. Words were on the tip of Dewey’s tongue, wanting to be screamed right along with the smaller figure. The smaller blob was being held over the canal, with the raging water beneath splashing roughly against the concrete sides. Over the rain and sound of his heart beating in his ears, Dewey continued to hear them shriek in terror, hearing nonsensical things being said as they were slowly lowered towards the churning water beneath.

_Take action, action, action, TAKE ACTION―_

That mantra screeched the loudest in his head, willing himself to spring over the ledge as though he were a superhero. The bad guys would have a taste of their own sickness and the lives of innocent people would be saved, thanks to Dew―

Dewey was frozen.

Frozen and rooted to the concrete like what had been laying beneath his backpack. That had to have happened a million years ago and on another planet, laughing about _thing-things_ with his brothers.

Pain laced up his fingertips and into his hands as he jerked back to reality. He loosened his fingers from over the ledge and ignored tears that made track lines down his face.

He couldn’t do it.

He couldn’t save them.

They were going to be dropped and swept away in the neck breaking speed of the canal.

They were going to drown...and they knew it.

Their shrieks turned into blood curdling screams that pierced within the duckling’s skull, echoing from all directions. Water lapped at their legs, trying to drag them down and away into the depths of the unknown.  

The small light colored blob was held over the canal for a few seconds more before they were abruptly flung back towards the group. The screams stopped―yet it still seemed to echo and cling to the walls and bridge. The smaller figure’s voice was loud and hysterical, sounding like mashed together pleads and undying gratitude. A swift kick was delivered by Mean Growl and they loomed over them, pulling something gleaming and metallic out from behind their back. It was shoved in their face and before Dewey could try and process what it was he was looking at, a piercing bang echoed from all around him. It made him jolt as though the noise itself had shot through his core. He squeezed his eyes shut while sharply covering his ears with his hands.

He gritted his beak together, slowly rubbing at his ears and blinking to see better. His breath shallow, Dewey peeked back over the ledge, letting his fingertips scrape against the rough siding.

They were gone―save for the small figure laying on the ground, still and unmoving.

His breath near caught in his throat, he gazed around like a spooked deer, looking to see if the taller figures were still there but had moved off to the side.

They weren’t.

They were gone just as quickly as they’d arrived. Almost like they hadn’t been there to begin with, and Dewey put a trembling hand to his beak in confused thought.

What was he supposed to do?

Should he go down and—

Just at the thought of it, Dewey shrunk himself further against the hard concrete. For the first time, a quivering sob broke out from his beak. He shook his head in rapid, near frantic motions.

No.

Absolutely not.

He could still hear the echoing bang within his ears, and he was still trying to piece together what it was that had made that horrible noise.

It was on the tip of his tongue but his mind was too frazzled to fully comprehend it. Still trying to process what had just happened, he shoved a rough hand over his beak and tried to stifle another sob.

“What are you doing…?” he mumbled through his hands, staring at the motionless figure. With his trembling arms thrown out in front of him he frantically moved his hands upwards. “Get up already!”

They didn’t.

He continued to stare and silently urge them to move, to do something, unbelieving that maybe...maybe they—

They were still, deathly so, and Dewey sucked in a sharp breath. The stillness that had kept a tight hold of him vanished and he scrambled away from the ledge, grabbing his backpack in a crazed dash. He slung it over his shoulder and sprinted back up the hill, feeling the rain soak through his clothes and glide over his feathers, seeping through to his skin.

He frantically rubbed a hand over his eyes and hit asphalt, fully sprinting across the road. A blaring car horn and lights shone brightly on him. Dewey felt adrenaline dump into his system as he loudly cursed and dove for the other side of the road, landing with a hard, wet thump onto a mud encased patch of dirt.

With thick mud in between his fingers, he knelt there and looked up. The car picked up speed and turned sharply onto the bridge, growing smaller as it raced off.

Shaking in violent tremors, Dewey stared at the ground and tried to catch his breath. He squeezed his eyes shut, mumbling calming words that sounded more like a soothing lullaby the more he listened to it. After taking a few moments to just breath and calm down, he opened his eyes and took a few more deep, controlled breaths. Mud was streaked over his side and clothes and he was thoroughly soaked again, but the panic was beginning to taper down.

He lifted himself to his knees, trying to brush away the caked mud off of his side and arms before he felt his pocket, beginning to panic all over again.

“No... _no_ ,” he cried, sniffling loudly as he searched the ground, looking for his phone. After a few quick moments of searching, he found it laying face down in the mud and he lunged for it, picking it up he scraped the mud off and clicked on the power button.  

Light flooded from his phone. Hanging his head, he wiped a wet arm over his beak. Slinging his backpack off, he dumped his phone inside, fearing his pockets were too wet and his luck with the device would soon run out. Putting his backpack back over his shoulders, he made way to climb back up the steep hill, still shaken and trying hard to not think about the bridge...or anything, really, that surrounded it.

If light bulbs could appear over peoples heads, one would have been blaring a neon blue over Dewey’s.

“My phone,” he whispered, stopping short and raising his head up. He cursed, screaming a near unintelligible, “My phone!”

The rain moved in a blur around him as he whirled around and ran back to the edge of the road. He stopped, looking both ways before he ran back across it and dove underneath the bridge. The patter of water and mud pooled around his feet while he gasped for breath and grasped for his bag. He leaned forward with his backpack midway off his shoulders but he stilled again, blinking in shock.

They were gone.

The dirt path remained as it had before, dark and empty with the ever foaming wild rush of the water in the canal whirling along its set path.

Nobody was there.

It was like it hadn’t even happened. But the screams―he could still hear them, even if he was undeniably alone.

He could still hear―  

“I hope you’re ok, whoever you are,” he mumbled in a daze. Turning back around, he looked back, affirming the path was empty before he slipped back out into the pouring rain, his side beginning to ache as he headed home.

 

* * *

 

“What the hell happened to you?”

Dewey closed the front door, hearing his younger brother’s unsettled yet more so curious voice come from the living room.

“I slipped going back up the hill from the bridge,” he called, leaving his backpack by the door. “I got a mud bath and it sucked.”

He heard snickering laughter come from the living room before he looked to the table in the kitchen. Huey glared at him from over various piled books and loose leaf paper.

“I thought I _kindly asked you_ to leave your backpack outside,” he said, his voice sounding a little to sweet for Dewey’s liking.  

“It’s still raining, _Hubert_ ,” he snapped, taking his layered shirts off before leaving them in a pile on the floor. “I have homework and stuff in there.”

“Anything in there’s long screwed, might as well should just leave it outside,” Louie called, his voice teasing as he glanced at him from the couch. “I’d be shocked if your backpack kept anything dry in there.”

But Dewey, instead of snarking back, had stilled at the front entrance, staring down at his wet clothes. He shuddered and quickly shook his head, gathering up the wet bundles. “I’m sure it’s fine,” he mumbled, ignoring the odd looks his brothers’ were giving him.

The note in his bag, the jacket, the moment when he thought he had _the story_ of the entire fifth grade…

It didn’t really seem all that important anymore.

Not when notes could be remade.

Jackets can be found.

And stories were just that...stories...that laid in the recesses of thought, spinning and spinning into something that _s c r e a―_

“...Dewey?”

The duckling blinked and shivered, catching movement from both the couch and table. Huey had stood, his voice again meeting Dewey’s ears as he said, “Dewey...what’s wrong?”

One glance into the living room and he could see Louie still on the couch, but he sat at the edge of it, hard eyes following his every minuscule movement.

He cleared his throat and looked to Huey, waving him off with a casual swish of his hand. “I’m fine. Just...my side hurts.”

And that was the truth―sort of. His oldest brother’s eyes roamed to his side and he gasped, rushing over he exclaimed, “You’ve got a really nasty bruise! Are you—”

“Yeah I’m fine,” he repeated, moving quickly around him. “I’m gonna shower.”

Dewey swiftly passed his brother and dumped his wet clothes into the laundry basket just inside their bedroom. He quickly closed the bathroom door, having heard them move towards him down the hallway.

Huey and Louie stopped midstep, hearing the shower turn on and they looked to each other, concern mirroring their expressions. Louie glanced back to the bathroom and shrugged before he went back to the couch, plopping down on it as he resumed watching TV.

Huey joined him, glancing his way with his beak open but Louie said, “It's Dewey. If something’s wrong he’ll tell us.”

He didn’t protest, even though he glanced towards the hallway so much his neck started to hurt.

After a while their brother joined them, remaining quiet but not seeming too out of the ordinary.

So they dropped it.

They watched TV as the rain pounded loudly on the roof over their heads.

 

* * *

 

Dewey jolted awake, grabbing at his chest as he sat upright, hearing a deafening bang and shrill—

He blinked a few times, feeling his breath flutter in his chest before slowing, and he shook with tears sliding quickly down his face. He sniffled within his hand and glanced to his brothers’, but they were still sound asleep.

Rain pittered over their window and above their heads. As quietly as he could, he inched out of bed and tiptoed to their door. Peeking over his shoulder he saw they were still asleep, so he carefully opened it before slipping out and into the hallway. The door to their uncle’s room was closed and the hallway was dark as he went inside the bathroom, shutting the door behind him with a soft click.

The young duckling stared at his reflection in the mirror. There were dark circles under his eyes that made him blink in surprise.

When had those appeared?

His breath hitched as he slid to the floor, pressing his hands to his ears. He stared at the wall in front of him, focusing on the small cracks and scuff marks decorating its surface.

...And not to the scre―noises. The noises, that started to echo from all around him―from under that bridge.

His hands tightened around his ears.

_It_ tightened around his lungs, his heart, it burned for far too long before he could gasp for a small bit of air, his chest feeling as though it were on the verge of collapsing.

He blinked a few times, breathing a bit easier as he stared, fixated on the wall in front of him and not to those―

Not to those.

Not to there.

But to here.

He counted shapes, counted colors, lines, dots, specks, and everything in between as noise didn’t so much as shroud like fog around him but simply stopped existing altogether.

Because     _t h e   s c r e a m i n g_ wouldn’t―

It didn’t―

He couldn’t―

_Why couldn’t he just have―_

It stopped.

A slow, even pulse thrummed against his hands and he loosened them from his head, feeling his ears pop from the intensity in which he’d been clinging to his head.

He leaned his head back against the cabinet, closing his eyes and counting sheep.

He even counted spiders, as crazy as that might have seemed.

But eventually, Dewey slipped out of the bathroom and like every other night now, he looked to both closed doors in the hallway before quietly padding down it, reaching the kitchen.

Dewey carefully got up on the counter and sniffled within his hand while sitting on his knees. He opened a cabinet with a cringe to the way the door squeaked. Sifting through the cabinet’s contents, his eyes finally locked onto what he craved for so deeply. For whatever reason, a certain guardian had been trying to hide it. He reached for the back of the cabinet, wanting and needing what was contained in its small package now more than any other time.

“May I help you?”

His uncle’s stern, but hushed voice rather suddenly called from the living room and Dewey startled, his back straightening as he looked over his shoulder. Donald was laying on the couch with his back leaned against the armrest. His legs were tented, and what looked like a cheap spiral notebook of some sort was in his hands with a pen in between his fingers.

Dewey’s face heated up immediately and he gave a short, nervous laugh to the tired and unimpressed face his uncle was making. He smiled awkwardly as he slowly sunk against the counter-top. “Oh...good morning Uncle Donald.”

His uncle arched a brow, closing his notebook and setting it to the side. “It’s actually just before eleven. But nice try.”

He simply stared back at him, his smile growing sheepish, and Donald silently moved his finger towards the ground, indicating he’d like him to get off the counter. Dewey complied, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Is there any particular reason why you’re out of bed and ignoring for the _hundredth_ time me asking you to stay _off_ the counter?”

Dewey cringed at the tone in his uncle’s voice and he looked away, rubbing harder at the back of his neck. He shrugged and his body tensed beneath Donald’s hard stare. He blinked a few times, feeling the corner of his eyes sting with a hard lump forming in his throat.

“I don’t know,” he eventually whispered. His eyes went back to his brothers’ room and he wished he’d just gone back to bed.  

The couch shifted before his uncle’s soft footsteps drew closer and a light hand settled over his shoulder. Donald’s tone grew considerably softer as he mumbled, “Hey...kiddo, what’s up?”

He shrugged again, sniffling, he quickly wiped at his beak and clenched his hands by his sides.

His uncle was silent for a few moments before he said, “Bad dream?”

He nodded curtly, feeling tears slip down his face. Dewey’s head was rubbed and patted before Donald reached into the cabinet and pulled out what the duckling had originally come into the kitchen for.

“I don’t approve of you using the stove on your own,” Donald said, going to the fridge, he pulled out some milk and poured some into a small pot before putting the carton away and closing the door.

Dewey watched him flick the stove on before he grumbled, “I was gonna use the microwave.”

Donald scrunched his face and muttered, “Jeez kiddo, wake me up instead and I’ll just make you some.”

The corners of Dewey’s beak quirked upwards as he inched closer and watched what his uncle was doing. “There’s not that big of a difference.”

His uncle sputtered, glancing down at him in disbelief. " _Child_ , don’t insult me.”

Dewey leaned against Donald’s side, covering his beak with his hands as he tried to stifle giggles that tried to leave his throat. “I’d never dream of insulting your culinary talents.”

“Good,” Donald hummed, stirring powder into the pan. “Because if there’s one thing I can make right in this world, it’s hot chocolate. And I make excellent hot chocolate.”

Dewey leaned his head against his uncle’s arm, closing his eyes and smiling lightly as he listened to the liquid being stirred. He breathed in the rich, sweet scent of bubbling chocolate and urged in quiet impatience for the liquid to boil and pop, the final indication it was done. “I love your hot chocolate.”

Donald scoffed, pulling down two mugs. “And here you were about to use the _microwave_. That’s unforgivable.”

He snickered into his hand, hearing the stove turn off. He was handed a steaming mug a few moments later and the two sat at the table with Dewey beside his uncle. Sipping his drink he hummed, content as he closed his eyes, wrapping his hands around the warm mug.

“Thanks Uncle Donald,” he murmured, and the top of his head was patted.

“It’s no problem. Cocoa makes everything better.”

He hummed again in agreement, glancing back into the living room, where the soft yellow light of a lamp was pointed towards the couch. The notebook and pen was still laying on it’s cushion. “Hey Uncle Donald, what were you writing about?”

“Boring adult stuff. Don’t worry about it.”

He rolled his eyes but let it be, listening to the continual patter of the rain over their heads.

“Dewey?”

He looked to Donald, who was staring down at him with a level gaze. His tone was light as he said, “Is everything alright? You’ve been a bit...off, this past week. Are you feeling ok?”

His hands tightened around the mug. Nodding to his uncle’s expectant face he said, “Uh...yeah I’m fine. I don’t know, there’s a bug going around at school and—”

“You just contradicted yourself,” Donald noted, sipping from his mug.

Dewey’s brows lowered and he glared up at his uncle, who shrugged and glanced innocently down at him. Puffing air out of his beak, he averted his gaze and grumbled, “You’re nosy.”

“I’m your uncle and guardian. I’m supposed to be nosy.”

Dewey rolled his eyes again, hearing Donald snicker from beside him. “You’re being extra nosy then.”

“And you’re being evasive. But you don’t see me commenting on it.”

Dewey narrowed his eyes, sipping sharply from his mug. “You _just_ commented on it.”

“So I did,” Donald agreed, and when Dewey looked up at him, his uncle’s amused smile stared back at him.

He put his head in his hand, keeping his other hand around the mug, when he heard his uncle clear his throat, saying, “You know you can talk to me about anything, right? I can’t exactly help you if I don’t know what’s going on.”

Dewey nodded, focusing on the warmth from the mug that seeped into his hand and fingers. “Have you...uh…”

He paused, peeking up at Donald’s intently listening face. His uncle nodded, slowly waving his hand for him to continue.

His face paling, Dewey looked straight ahead and sniffled, feeling another hard lump form in his throat. “Have you ever seen something that you...you know...shouldn’t have?”

His uncle was quiet beside him, and Dewey sipped his drink, blinking back tears when Donald said a small, “I have. So yes, I’ve accidentally seen...stuff...why are you asking?”

With Donald’s voice ending on trepidation and heavy caution, Dewey sniffled again and shrugged. The older duck strummed his fingers over the tabletop, humming low while staring intently at him.

“Is this why you’ve been having trouble sleeping?”

Dewey sharply looked up, his eyes like saucers as Donald chuckled in quiet amusement.

“Parent ears,” Donald said, smiling faintly and tapping the side of his head. “You’ve been coming out into the living room for the past few nights. You don’t have to tell me what happened if you don’t want to, but it might help you if you do.”

Dewey narrowed his eyes, sipping his cocoa as he slowly said, “You were waiting for me to come out here, weren’t you?”

His uncle shrugged, again looking far too innocent for Dewey’s liking. But instead of protesting, he sighed and swallowed down the lump in his throat, stifling the anxiety and nervousness trying to crawl out from his stomach.

“It was bad,” he mumbled, staring off to the side. His voice wavered as he added, “It was really, really bad Uncle Donald.”

He felt his head being rubbed again, and Donald’s quiet voice registered a moment later. “You’re not going to surprise me with anything you tell me.”

Dewey glanced up, sniffling as he rubbed at his eyes. “You sure?”

“Positive.” Donald nodded, giving him a reassuring smile.

He scooted closer to his uncle and hugged him tightly, forcing his words to leave his beak. “After detention on Monday, when I was comin’ home I wanted to get outta the rain...like maybe wait it out. I was over by the canal and I was under a bridge when…”

His breath hitched, and he felt a soothing hand over his back, before he cried out, “There was a bunch a people there, and this person was gonna throw someone in the canal. They were screa―”

He cut himself off and clung to his uncle’s clothes, burying his head harder against his side. “They were loud and it was so scary, I thought they were gonna drown.”

The hand on his back had stilled and tightened significantly, and when he looked up, despite what his uncle had said, complete shock and bewilderment stared back at him. But Donald gave a small shake of his head and seemed to recollect himself, his brow furrowing in worry as he made a low, somber sounding noise from under his breath.

Dewey re-buried his head against his uncle’s side as arms were wrapped around him. “They didn’t. The one who was gonna do it pulled something out and I didn’t see it, but it was _really, really loud_. I think it might have been a _gun_ Uncle Donald.” The word leaving his beak like acid, he shivered at the memory of the loud, piercing noise. “I don’t know. They were gone by the time I looked, and the person—”

He shook, breathing heavily against his uncle as he sobbed, feeling his uncle hug him tighter.

“I thought they died,” he finally choked out, his words tumbling together. “They were really still and I ran, but then I forgot I had my phone and when I went back they were gone. I feel so bad Uncle Donald, I shoulda helped them instead a—”

“ _No_ , you did the right thing,” Donald firmly interrupted, his voice raising. “You did the right thing by hiding and leaving as soon as you could.”

“But if I had just called the—”

“No, Dewey, you need to _listen_ to what I’m telling you.” Donald leaned back and tipped Dewey’s beak upwards, the soft lines of the older duck’s face having grown hard and serious while gazing down at him. “You did the right thing by staying quiet, hidden, and invisible. Those kinds of people are very, _very_ bad. If you can’t run or leave without being seen, then you _need_ to hide and stay as quiet as you can. Do not confront them, do not go and check it out and in those instances, do not help somebody who is in trouble. When you’re able to, dial for the police and let _them_ take care of it—not you.”

“Why—”

“Because,” Donald mumbled, placing his hand over the side of Dewey’s cheek. His expression softened while brushing his hand through Dewey’s feathers, his eyes alighting with something he couldn’t fully identify, but it left the duckling feeling safe and warm as his uncle spoke. “Those bad people, they can and _will_ set up traps for good people like you and your brothers...And...if they’re successful, then they will hurt you.”

Dewey felt a chill go up his back. He looked to the older duck’s serious expression, watching as his uncle closed his eyes and sighed. Donald shook his head and said, “There are _terrible_ people who do terrible things...and I’m so, so sorry you went through that. I know you wish you could have done differently, but you need to try and not think like that. You did exactly as you should have, and I’m proud of you for doing what you did.”

Staring up into the kind, loving face of his uncle, Dewey didn’t know what to say to that.

He was proud of him? For…doing nothing?

That made no sense. None. But he was too tired to fully ponder over it, so he simply nodded and rubbed at his eyes, sniffling as he hiccuped, “I just...I just wanna sleep. I’ve been waking up because I keep...I keep thinking I’m hearing it, that loud bang and the...the other noises.”

Donald leaned his forehead against his nephew’s and said, “That’s normal after something like that. It should go away on its own but if it doesn’t you need to tell me, alright?”

The duckling nodded and pulled away, wiping at his eyes as he sipped his lukewarm drink. He stared at the floor, rubbing at his beak.

“I’ve got an idea,” Donald declared and he rose from the table, walking down the hallway and into his room.

Dewey drank more of his cocoa, nearing the end of it by the time Donald came back with a spiral notebook and pen in his hand. He set them in front of Dewey and said, “Write down everything you’re feeling right now. Everything you wish that could have been different. All your thoughts, feelings, anything and everything you want in it. Don’t show me, your brothers’, or anyone else what you’ve written. Don’t worry about spelling or grammar, and don’t look back and re-read what you’ve written. Once you’re done, give it back to me and we’ll burn it together.”

He stared wide eyed at Donald, furrowing his brow a moment later as he looked down at the simple plain blue cover of the notebook in front of him. He made to open his beak and speak his confusion, but his uncle put a finger to his beak, shushing him.

“Just try it,” Donald said with a small smile. Moving over to the couch, he picked up the notebook and pen and returned to the table, sitting opposite him. “It might help or it might not. It’s ok either way, but I think it might help you.”

Dewey watched with a cocked head as Donald opened his plain black notebook and flipped to about three fourths of the way in, beginning to write with a neutral expression flitting over his face. He glanced up and pointed his pen in the young duckling’s direction, saying, “Go ahead. I wouldn’t have you do something if I thought it was pointless...or on a school night.”

With a hesitant hand, he took the pen in between his fingers and flipped to the first page, staring down at the blank, lined paper. He blinked a few times before he started writing.

The night rolled slowly along, with the constant patter and drill of the rain hitting the houseboat’s rooftop. Dewey wrote alongside his uncle, finding it easier than he thought to pour words onto paper.

At one point he gritted his beak together, feeling that familiar hard lump form in not just his throat but in his chest, and he startled when a box of tissues was placed on the table and pushed in his direction.

He cried softly and smiled as he took a few tissues, balling them into his hand and rubbing them against his eyes when needed.

It was in the early pre-hours of dawn that two notebooks, black and blue, were thrown into the burning fire of the boat’s furnace.

When Dewey crawled back into bed next to his brothers’, he laid his head against his pillow and stared up at the ceiling.

_It_ was still there, that horrible feeling, tightening into something hard and coiled within his chest. But the all consuming ache there had lessened, if only a little. Dewey closed his eyes, sleep beginning to tug and pull him back down.   

For the first time that week, he slept soundly.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments are always appreciated, especially constructive criticism, I can never have enough constructive criticism.


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